Broken Doll
by KimberlyTheOwl
Summary: Why is Sherlock trapped in his brother's house under the care of a psychiatrist, and what has happened to his memory? "The human mind tries hard to protect itself... but in the end, if we are to stay sane, we must get down to the dark recesses, find out the truth... It's time... time for you to start remembering, Sherlock Holmes." For hjohn302, johnsarmylady, and MapleLeafCameo.
1. Part One: Prologue

Title: Broken Doll

Author: KimberlyTheOwl

Summary: Why is Sherlock locked in his brother's house, talking to a psychiatrist, and how did he get there? And how will John be able to save him from himself, when he doesn't even know his friend is alive?

Author's Notes: This story came out of an outline I wrote about ten years ago for a different fandom... and which was in turn inspired by a television episode I saw a very long time ago. There's really nothing new under the sun, is there? I've lost my original outline but still remembered the basics of the tale, so decided to resurrect it all (vastly changed, in the end) for this fandom... even though I've already done amnesia-fic with John in All That I Am, All That I was; Sherlock is an entirely different sort of subject.

I wanted to explore the limits of what Sherlock's subconscious could do to him, given the strain he places on his sense of identity by faking his suicide and going into hiding at the end of Season Two. Add a good dose of guilt, a steady infusion of patient and loyal John, and a surprising amount of Mycroft-concern, and this is what you get. Warning for lots of angst; have handkerchiefs at the ready.

This was originally posted in-progress. Thanks to all who read along and faithfully reviewed during that time, especially hjohn302, johnsarmylady, and MapleLeafCameo. Ladies, I dedicate this story to the three of you, for all of your encouragement. Also, thanks to all who helped point out typos and missing words; hopefully I have found and fixed them all now.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, don't make any money off of this, just like to take them out and play with them once in a while.

oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo

Part One, Prologue: Time To Start Remembering

The other door into the sitting room opened, just as he sat down in the armchair with an irritated glance at the nurse as she left the room by the way they had both entered. He looked up and sighed audibly.

"Ah, here you are again for another bit of pointless interrogation. Aren't the both of you getting a bit tired of this yet?"

"It's not a matter of whether or not I am tired of speaking with you." The older man, clad in a heavy tweed suit - with elbow patches, even, all he needed was a pipe to complete the professorial look - eased himself into the other chair. "It's a matter of whether or not we've arrived at the heart of the matter." He spoke perfect English with a London accent, yet his features and warm colouring placed his ancestry as something else... Central European? Jewish, perhaps? Ah, yes, that would make sense...

"Heart of the matter. How trite." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "What am I to be confessing, then? We've already talked about my childhood, dismal though it was. And I'm certain that my brother could have filled you in all of those details, anyway."

"No..." The other man gazed at him steadily. "As I mentioned yesterday, it's the more recent history we ought to concern ourselves with."

"Yesterday?" He felt himself frowning. Yes, they had spoken yesterday, but why couldn't he remember the details?

"Yes. We talked for several hours. As you said, you divulged rather a lot about your childhood and young adult years... but we somehow never arrived at the last few days. Or even the last few months." He leaned closer. "How many days have you been here?"

He thought frantically, even looked around the room and at himself for clues. He saw, without really processing it, that he was wearing only simple pyjamas - though of excellent quality - and a plain dark blue dressing gown. The sight of the dressing gown triggered a brief moment of familiarity, then it was gone. He had only bedroom slippers on his feet, no socks. His hands were clean, the nails trimmed very short - he usually favored a tiny bit of an edge, always useful as a tool for prying things open - but when he put his hand up to his face he could feel the itchy residue of several days' growth of beard. When had he last shaved?

He wasn't hungry or thirsty, but that hardly told him much. He was equally accustomed to both ignoring his body's demands and satisfying them without paying much attention to the matter. He felt slightly groggy, slightly off ... as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep or if he'd been medicated with a sedative. But if he'd been forgetting to sleep, why hadn't anyone reminded him to go to bed? There was a time when John used to do that. Where was John?

His neck ached, and both of his wrists itched for some reason. He ignored the sensations and continued his mental inventory, turning up nothing else of note.

Finally he looked back at his questioner. "I don't know. Satisfied?"

"I'd be happier if you did know."

He rubbed his chin again. "Four days? Five?"

"You're guessing."

"I'm deducing."

"But you don't actually remember. It amounts to the same thing." He opened a folder and pulled out what appeared to be two photographs, printed out on a color printer. "Your brother and I spoke about this last night, and we decided that it's time for a bit of change of tactics. I want you to look at these."

He opened his hand and reluctantly took the photographs, and looked at the first one.

It clearly showed himself, slumped unconscious on the floor... an entryway? He didn't look right to his own eyes; his hair was wild and tangled and the clothes weren't anything he recognized. He was filthy, and absolutely covered in blood.

He felt a chill creep down his spine. "I don't recognise... this is me, but when was this taken?" He moved on to the next photograph. Again, he saw his own face; this time he appeared to be cleaned up somewhat and in a hospital bed. The blood was gone, the hair neatly combed, but the eyes were open, unfocused, vacant. Drugged? Was this from some near-forgotten misadventure, years ago?

"The first one was taken the night you ... arrived here, on your brother's doorstep. The second, the following morning." He cleared his throat. "That was about two weeks ago. He found you, barely conscious, covered in someone else's blood and with your stomach full of a near-lethal dose of sedatives." He took the photographs back and put them away in the folder.

"The human mind tries hard to protect itself... but in the end, if we are to stay sane, we must get down to the dark recesses, find out the truth.

"It's time... time for you to start remembering, Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Part Two: My Soul, Blackened Though

Part Two: My Soul, Blackened Though It Is

_A few weeks earlier..._

"It sounds very dangerous, Sherlock. Are you certain you've thought this through thoroughly?"

Sherlock paced the sitting room and disheveled his hair. "Of course it's dangerous, Mycroft. But ... if it works, it's my chance to end it all." _End it all, quickly, and come home again... to find John, and see if he will forgive me. My chance to have my life back again._

"It's a perfect trap, or as perfect as I can make it. I'll be somewhat disguised. He'll think he's meeting up with one of Moriarty's other hired killers, one that he never met and who does bear a certain superficial resemblance to me... and who is now secretly in prison in Kuala Lampur, awaiting execution." He paced again. "His other confederates all missing, dead, or in prison, his boss long dead... I think he'll show up."

"Then why do you need my help?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "The meeting location... it's a pub that Thomlinson, the man I'm supposed to be posing as, used to frequent. That's part of what makes it believable. Kroeger will see 'me' in the right place looking like the man he is there to meet. But..."

"There is always a 'but'," said Mycroft drily.

"The pub is also a favorite watering hole for Greg Lestrade, and some of the other Yarders," he said reluctantly. "John used to go there with them frequently. I never went, though I was invited, so no one there should recognise me... and John is safe enough in Aberdeen. As far as I can tell, he's had little or no contact with his old London crowd for months. But the others..."

"You want me to warn them to stay away."

"Not warn them, just find a way to keep them away. I don't care how. Just keep Lestrade busy; that shouldn't be too difficult?"

"Sherlock, I can hardly go about committing crimes just to keep Scotland Yard busy."

"Please, Mycroft. Just come up with some scheme that ensures that Lestrade and his people will be too busy that night to even think about showing up at the Goat in Boots, from 10 pm to closing time. Invent a crime, throw a party, call him up and say they've all won tickets to France. Just... keep them safe." He swallowed. "John is as safe as he can be, even if he's not happy. But I'd rather not put Lestrade and the others at risk."

"He's a professional, Sherlock. He can take care of himself. They all are."

"But they're not in Kroeger's league. They're... normal people, even the ones I don't like very much. He's a dangerous, heartless killer, who would certainly not bat an eye at killing a Scotland Yard inspector and his staff, nor innocent bystanders... and by all accounts, absolutely without a soul."

Mycroft eyed him closely, feeling surprise leak out into his facial expression. "And since when are you an authority on souls? And hearts?"

Sherlock looked away, out the window. _Since I had to send John away, to keep him safe, by convincing him I was dead. My heart - and my soul, blackened though it is - are both in Scotland._ "Please, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "Set your plans in motion. I'll find a way to keep the Yarders out of the picture."


	3. Part Three: More Talking To Do

Part Three: We've Got Some More Talking To Do

While much of what had happened in the last few days was a bit foggy, Sherlock knew immediately that the man entering the hospital room had to be a therapist or psychiatrist of some kind. His manner, the way he dressed, the way he studied Sherlock so alertly, all pointed to this likelihood.

"Hello, Sherlock. I'm Dr. Feinstein. Your brother asked me to come talk with you." He held out a hand, which Sherlock ignored.

"Why am I still here in this hospital?" he asked instead. "I feel much better, my vital signs are normal, I've no serious injuries. Why hasn't Mycroft had me released yet? And where is John?"

Dr. Feinstein frowned slightly. "John?"

"Yes, John. He ought to be here by now; Mycroft is my next of kin but he knows enough that he should have notified John if I was in hospital."

"Ah." The psychiatrist sat down in the visitor chair, steepling his hands in front of his face in a way that eerily mimicked one of Sherlock's own favorite poses. "Sherlock... what is the last thing that you remember?"

"It's a bit fuzzy right now," Sherlock admitted. "I must I had a head injury or something tedious like that... but I remember coming back from Dartmoor with John, and a few very trying days with some reporters who wanted to talk with me about that bloody 'Hound from Hell' case." He rubbed his eyes. "And ... something about a trial? I had to testify about someone, but it didn't go very well. But where is John? I suppose he went off to visit his sister, or to a medical conference, or some such business, and just hasn't been able to get back yet." He knew he sounded tired and petulant, but didn't care. His head was starting to throb painfully.

"Never mind him for now. Sherlock... you didn't have a head injury. You had an overdose."

"Overdose?" He frowned.

"Yes. Benzodiazepines, short-acting. Valium or something similar. You were unconscious for three days and on a ventilator for almost 24 hours before you could breathe on your own."

"That's absurd. Why would I overdose on tranquilizers?"

"Why, indeed." Dr. Feinstein leaned a little closer. "I was hoping you could tell me that."

"I'm not depressed. Or suicidal," argued Sherlock. "John and I were... well, things were a bit tense around the flat after that Hound case, but ... no, it's absolutely impossible."

"So you don't feel like hurting yourself?"

"Of course not. But if Mycroft doesn't get me out of here soon, or at least find John, I might feel like hurting him."

"I think we can arrange your release, then. But ... you're to come to your brother's house for a while."

"Why?" Sherlock eyed the psychiatrist suspiciously.

"Suffice it to say that he wants to keep a close eye on you for now. And... we've got some more talking to do."

Sherlock shrugged. "Stupid. I'd be fine back at the flat, once John turns up. But... Mycroft's house is better than the hospital. All right, I'll go there for a few days."


	4. Part Four: Like a Comet

Part Four:Like a Comet, Burning Through the Skies

"Anything?"

The psychiatrist shook his head, and Mycroft hid his disappointment.

"He denies any suicidal thoughts and has no memory at all of taking the pills, as you told me. I think he's probably being truthful about that; he doesn't have the feel of someone who is actively suicidal. But he doesn't remember anything since something he is calling the Hound case. Wasn't that..."

'Yes, yes, that sensational thing in Dartmoor, near the army base. But that was almost three years ago. So he really doesn't remember any of the events that followed... I thought perhaps he was just doing it to irritate me."

"The entire business with Moriarty, his arrest, the media besmirching his good name, the suicide ... which I now, of course, perceive was staged ... no, he remembers none of it. Nor anything he's been working on since then. He's coherent, but his affect is a bit flat, even from what you describe as his baseline. He seems... curiously un-curious about what happened to him, and he's giving in very easily to the proposal of coming to stay with you. That tells me that his subconscious is trying to protect him by keeping him from probing too deeply." He cleared his throat. "We've another problem. He keeps asking for 'John'."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes. Dr. John Watson. His former flatmate, colleague, and friend; a very good, very patient man... the only person I've ever seen tolerate Sherlock for long. Indeed, John seemed to thrive on the company of my madcap brother. They were... an amazing team, for a short while. Like a comet burning a trail through the sky. They did some truly great things."

"And he's where, now? Is he alive?"

"Very much so. He's in Scotland. He moved up there about a year ago, to take a new position at a hospital and clinic. Mostly teaching but also some clinical work. I ... helped him to find it; it seemed the least I could do." He sat down in the armchair. "Unfortunately, like the rest of the world, he believes my brother to be dead. There are very few of us who know the truth, and we were not able to allow John to have the knowledge. It would have meant his death, until recently."

"And now?"

"And now... based on the scene of devastation left at the pub, it may finally be safe to tell him. But that was always to be Sherlock's decision. My brother is impetuous, mercurial, maddening... but I'll not take that power out of his hands. He must consent to bring John back. He would never forgive me if I told John the truth, without his permission."

"He's asking for him, Mycroft. In every other sentence."

"No." Mycroft took a deep breath. "We'll move Sherlock to my house as planned, and you'll work with him. Surely a few more days of safety, and your skills, can bring him back to himself a bit more. There's no harm in trying."


	5. Part Five: A Penchant for Dramatics

Part Five: A Penchant For Dramatics

Sherlock sat in the best wing-backed chair in his sitting room and fidgeted with the cuff of his pyjamas, scratching absently at the bandage on his left wrist. _Must be something left from the hospital... didn't I have an IV in that hand? Taking a bloody long time to heal._

"Bored." he muttered aloud to himself. There were books to read, but no newspapers or magazines, and Mycroft and the staff had consistently stonewalled his requests for a computer or a television or a phone. He still hadn't heard from John, though Mycroft had murmured something vague about John being out of the country for a few days.

He looked around the room, trying to get information. It was decorated in Mycroft's usual conservative but tasteful style. Gleaming bookshelves, rich window dressings, pale and spotless carpet... wait.

There was a patch of carpet near the window that looked different somehow than it had the day before. He got up to inspect it more closely, kneeling down on the floor despite a sudden painful muscle spasm in his neck. Yes... there it was. It was skillfully done, but a large patch of carpet had clearly been ripped out and replaced with a fresh piece, since... yesterday? Yes, he had been in here yesterday, he was almost certain.

The door to his sitting room opened, and he stood up to see the inevitable face of Dr. Feinstein... this time accompanied by Mycroft.

"Double the pleasure, I see," he sneered. "Mycroft, how long is this going to go on? When am I to be allowed real clothing again? And for God's sake, a razor? You know how I hate to be stubbly."

Mycroft's face was unreadable. "If it bothers you, the nurse would be glad to shave you. As for clothing... you aren't ready to go home yet, little brother. Knowing your penchant for dramatics, I think it best we keep you dressed as you are."

"You think I'll stage an escape if you let me have my clothes back?" He rubbed at his neck, which was alarmingly stiff. He must have slept in a cramped position. "Really, Mycroft?"

"Yes." There was a long pause, and a quick glance passed between Mycroft and the psychiatrist. "Because you've already tried to escape, twice. Once in street clothes and once in pyjamas. We were lucky to get you back."

Sherlock stared. "I don't believe you. I remember no such thing."

"And you'll not be allowed a razor... because when we allowed you so much as a disposable safety razor, you smuggled it back in here, pried it open, and slashed your wrists almost to the bone. You severed some of your tendons, and I had to bring in a specialist to repair you. You bled all over the carpet." Mycroft gazed at him steadily, his face nearly expressionless.

"But there's no..." His eyes strayed to the patch of replaced carpet. "Oh," he said softly.

"And then a few days later, when you were just finally starting to heal up, one of the staff accidentally dropped a paper clip in your bedroom. You used it to reopen the wounds. Sherlock, you bled in there for hours before someone checked on you. You could have died." There was a catch in Mycroft's voice. "You screamed and panicked when we tried to stop the bleeding, and we had to sedate you. And you woke up not remembering it."

"I don't... Mycroft..." Sherlock's voice shot up an octave and wobbled dangerously.

"Mycroft, I'm not sure this is wise," began Dr. Feinstein.

Mycroft wiped surreptitiously at his eyes. "But that wasn't the worst. The worst... was finding you last night. You wonder why we haven't let you wear socks? Because you unraveled all of the yarn of several pairs of your socks and tried to hang yourself last night! I found you, hanging from the curtain rod, turning purple... we cut you down before you could pass out, at least."

"My neck," whispered Sherlock, reaching up to rub it. "My wrists ... oh, God, Mycroft, what's wrong with me?" He felt tears course down his face, did nothing to try to stop them.

"He's not going to remember it tomorrow, Mycroft," warned the psychiatrist. "Don't let him get too worked up, it's not productive. As it is, I think we are going to have to sedate him again."

Mycroft ignored the doctor, and came closer to Sherlock. "Sherlock... you have to stop. Stop trying to kill yourself."

"I don't remember. How can I be trying to kill myself and not remember?" He put his hands over his face. "John... I need John. Mycroft, help me..."

He felt strong, familiar arms come around him then, and hold him close. "Shh. We'll help you, Sherlock, but you have to try to remember. You have to remember what happened to you."

He clung to Mycroft, terrified, weeping near-silent tears into his brother's shoulder, and didn't even feel the prick of the needle in his upper arm that brought welcome oblivion.


	6. Part Six: A Tenderness That Would

Part Six: A Tenderness That Would Astonish

"That ... didn't go very well." Mycroft looked down at his sleeping brother, now tucked safely into the hospital-style bed. He hated to use the restraints, but knew that Sherlock's safety depended on keeping him in bed for the night.

"No... but the emotional catharsis may actually help. Before, we've been evasive and rather beating around the bush. This degree of upheaval is hardly pleasant, but might bring him to himself."

Mycroft sighed. "He seemed more himself, less blase about where he was, more ready to fight his mental fog. But he was terrified. That's very hard to watch, Simon."

"We'll make sure he gets a good sleep tonight, then I'll talk to him tomorrow. Mycroft... I think it's time to show him the photographs. From the night he arrived." He put a hand on Mycroft's arm. "Whatever happened that night... and I know you know more about it than you are telling me... it's the key to unlocking his mind. He was traumatised somehow, severely, and his subconscious won't let him remember. Every time he gets close, he shuts down and forgets."

"And tries to kill himself." Mycroft spat the words out bitterly. He reached up to brush his brother's hair off of his forehead, displaying a tenderness that would have astonished an awake Sherlock.

"Yes, but now you have the room monitored. Both of them, the entire suite. He can't do anything without being stopped immediately, even if he were to find some other means that we haven't thought of."

"I suppose so." Mycroft straightened up, his eyes still on the too-pale figure in the bed. His gaze traveled over the bruised neck, the bandaged wrists, the thin frame. "But he can't take much more of this, Simon. I think it's time for me to take your advice."

"Advice?" "If Sherlock is to survive this with his psyche intact and with his brilliant mind functional, he is going to need help. It's time I summoned John."

The psychiatrist nodded. "Of course. I don't think you'll regret it, Mycroft. If he inspires that much loyalty from someone like Sherlock, and as much respect as I can tell you hold for him, then he is exactly what we need." He looked over at his patient. "Would you like me to stay with him for a while? Or call the nurse?"

"Neither." Mycroft sank into the bedside chair. "I'll sit with him for now. I've... got rather a lot to think about." He reached over and took his brother's limp hand in his, reassured by its warmth. He didn't see the psychiatrist quietly let himself out of the room, as he allowed his thoughts to drift back to the night that Sherlock had arrived in such a state.


	7. Part Seven: Empty Eyes

Part Seven: Empty Eyes, Like a Broken Doll

_About two weeks earlier..._

Mycroft looked up from his book, frowned. The usual heavy stillness of the house in late evening had been interrupted by a sound. He'd been deep into his reading and so couldn't immediately place the origin or meaning, until it happened a second time.

The door-bell, chiming furiously, as if someone was trying to pull it off of the outside wall.

He set the book aside and got up. The maid would answer the door, but it was almost 11 pm and he was faintly uncomfortable with the idea of of the young woman opening the door to God-only-knew-who at this time of night. It was a very safe and secure neighborhood, normally, but he knew better than to take chances.

Red-headed Shannon was just cautiously looking through the security peephole when he arrived in the entryway. He smiled to see her rising up onto her toes to see out properly.

"I'm not sure who it is, sir... a man, but he looks as if he's not in very good nick. Ill or injured."

With a faint shiver of foreboding, Mycroft gently moved her aside and looked for himself. He gasped, a quick intake of breath, as he recognised the tattered, slender figure swaying on the front step. _Sherlock._

He turned to the maid. "It's all right. It's ... somehow I know, and we'll need to help him." Mycoft opened the door and motioned her out to follow him.

He caught his brother just as he fell, sagging against him. Shannon crept around to the other side, reached out a hand, drew back. Her face was white with fear. "Sir... he's covered in blood!"

Grimly, Mycroft managed to get Sherlock's not-quite-completely-limp arm around his neck, and between them, he and the reluctant maid half-carried, half-dragged him into the entryway. Once inside with the door safely closed, Mycroft lowered his brother gently to the polished parquet floor, knelt next to him, and started to assess him.

Breathing, good. Colour looks okay. He ripped open the jacket and shirt, looking for wounds, but the chest and abdomen were intact; only Sherlock's smooth white skin met his hands and eyes. It appeared as though the blood, which was indeed spattered liberally over Sherlock's clothing, might not be his. He looked like he'd been in a slaughterhouse but Mycroft could find no obvious injuries.

He sank back upon his heels.

"Sir? Should I call an ambulance?"

He looked up at her frightened face, then back at Sherlock. "Yes, we'll need one ... but not by the usual means. I'll make the call. Go back out and see if there is any obvious blood on the front step, and start removing it if you find any."

She nodded and slipped back out. Mycroft retrieved his mobile phone from inside his suit jacket and placed a call to a very special classified number, then turned his attention back to his brother. His eyelids were fluttering, and Mycroft bent closer, slapping his cheek gently.

"Sherlock! Wake up, tell me what happened!"

He repeated the entreaty a few times and shook his brother slightly. Finally Sherlock's eyes opened and he seemed to track on Mycroft's face.

"Mycroft..." he groaned.

"That much should be obvious. I've got medical assistance coming, but it would help greatly if you could tell me what happened."

"Need help... don't deserve it... but need it. May be too late now..."

Mycroft frowned. "Too late for what?"

"Shouldn't have done it. Should have thought of her, that she might be there. All broken now, all gone, all that blood... empty eyes, like a broken doll. Hurts too much, Mycroft."

"Are you in pain?"

"No. No pain now. No more pain soon."

He didn't like the sound of that at all. He looked at his brother's dazed face, his barely perceptible breathing. "Sherlock... did you take something?"

"Whole bottle. Whole bottle of them."

"Whole bottle of what?"

Sherlock was looking into the distance, his gaze somewhere over Mycroft's shoulder. "Changed my mind... tried to throw them up. Couldn't. Need help..."

Mycroft swore under his breath. "For God's sake, Sherlock what did you take?"

But there was no answer, and he could only watch as if in a dream as the door opened to admit the emergency medical team, and they began to assess and work on his brother, starting with supporting his failing breathing.


	8. Part Eight: Ghosts Of His Past Happiness

Part Eight: Ghosts of his Past Happiness

_Present day..._

As he stepped out of the back door of the clinic onto the sidewalk, he blinked briefly at the bright sunlight. For an April day, the weather was surprisingly cooperative. John immediately revised his plans, deciding to walk a few blocks further.

_I'll head for that sandwich shop I spotted last week, he mused. Their menu looked interesting, and the sunlight will be good for me. Vitamin D and all that. The natural antidepressant._

He sighed briefly as he rounded the corner. The return of spring was indeed gradually lightening his mood. It had been a long, dark, sad winter in Aberdeen. On the one hand, he knew that the change of venue had been a good idea. No ghosts of his past happiness stalked him in the streets here; the constant reminders of Sherlock's life and tragic death that had haunted him so in London were missing. Here, he was free to forge new memories, make new friends, without the oppressive burden of the past. But on the other hand... the weather was awful, worse than London, and he still knew so few people here.

It hadn't been an easy decision to make. For so long, he'd clung to his old life, his London friends. He still missed Lestrade and the Yarders, and very much missed Mrs. Hudson. He rang her up once in a while and she, the dear lady, mailed him homemade biscuits and cakes every month or so.

He wasn't sure how long the black car followed him silently. He gradually began to notice that it was pacing him, and the thought gave him a jolt of recognition.

_It's a coincidence. Why would Mycroft be trying to get my attention, now, here?_ He quickly looked away from the car, directed his eyes in front of him and started walking a little faster. The car kept pace.

He made the mistake of looking back at the car, and his heart lurched as the car crawled to a stop. The kerb-side door opened.

"John? Please get in the car." The voice was low but pleasant, feminine, familiar.

He controlled the urge to run, swallowed against a dry throat. _Just go with it, get it over with. It's never been any good to argue with him, or his minions._ He approached the car, and ducked inside.

The dark interior, tasteful as always, came as an abrupt, cool contrast to the sunshiny glare of the street. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but as he buckled in and the car pulled away, he was unsurprised to recognize Mycroft's PA 'Anthea' on the seat next to him.

"Hello," he said, as evenly as he could. "What's all this, then? What are you doing up here in Scotland?"

She kept her eyes focused on her smartphone. John found himself smiling in spite of himself... some things never changed. "You're to come to London, John."

"Am I? That's fascinating. I've a job here, you know. They're expecting me back in about ..." he looked at his watch, "forty minutes, for the afternoon surgery. And I've no luggage."

She continued to text. "Arrangements have been made. I stopped by your flat and packed a bag for you; it's in the boot. You're covered at the surgery for the next few days, to be extended as needed."

He stared. "Why is he doing this? Why can't he leave me alone? Mycroft is the one who found me this job. He helped me get a ... a change of scenery. Why does he need me in London?"

She smiled briefly, mysteriously, and as always, John felt a brief tinge of lust. _Why am I always drawn to the unattainable ones?_

"I'm sure I don't know, John. Wouldn't it be best to just relax and be patient? We should be at the train station soon."

He shot a look of mild disbelief at her. "All planned out, is it? What would happen if I jumped out of the car? Or bolted from you at the station?"

"You really don't want to find out, John. Trust me."


	9. Part Nine: A Sight Burned Into The Brain

Part Nine: A Sight Burned Into The Brain

John accepted the drink that Mycroft handed him - the man always had excellent Scotch - but continued to glower at the man he thought of as his dead best friend's brother. Once, he'd been somewhat intimidated by Mycroft, then they'd fallen into an uneasy sort of clandestine partnership with the goal of taking care of Sherlock... then Sherlock's world had fallen apart and he'd jumped from the rooftop and ended his life. Since then, John's dealings with Mycroft had been brief, infrequent, and always charged with emotion.

"Why am I here, Mycroft? For what possible reason have you dragged me all the way back to London?"

"It's rather complicated, John, and it would be best for you to sit down, I think."

"How dramatic and mysterious, as usual. What excuse did you give my employers at the clinic? Will I still have a job when I get back?"

"Sit down, John."

"I would rather stand."

"Very well." The corners of Mycroft's mouth quirked up into a brief, wintry smile. "You are here because Sherlock needs you. Rather badly, I should add, or I would have left you alone."

John felt his heart turn over in his chest. He groped behind him, found the chair, sagged into it. "Sherlock... Sherlock is dead," he whispered.

"For almost three years, it was necessary for you to believe that. For your own safety and that of others. Even now... suffice it to say that I am breaking confidences by bringing you in on the secret, and possibly risking your life. But I know you, John. I know that you are a soldier, not afraid for your own skin. The time has come for you to know the truth."

"He's not dead..." John's voice was a low murmur.

"He is very much alive. Three weeks ago, he stood in this very room and acquainted me with the particulars of a very dangerous plan, for which a favorable outcome would remove any remaining threat to you and the other friends that he cares about. A few nights later he came back to me... damaged, despondent, suicidal and with his memory in tatters. He needs your help, John, both as a friend and as a doctor."

John dropped his head into his hands and tried to take deep breaths. "How... why... dammit, I saw him fall! I saw him on the pavement! The sight is burned into my brain, Mycroft, something I will never, never forget until the day I die!" He jumped up, began to pace. "You never saw that. I was the one who had to hear him say good-bye, watch him jump off of that roof... watch the blood flow."

"I know what you saw and heard, John. I've heard the entire tale from Sherlock since then. Believe me when I say that it was very, very difficult for my brother to go through with his plan, when he knew it would be so painful for you."

"How... how did he do it? I don't understand. He was dead. And why? God, why did he feel he needed to do such a thing?"

"For now, I would prefer to defer the details to Sherlock, at least as far as explaining how he pulled it all off. I can tell you he had a very helpful, very willing accomplice, who was well poised to help him, and that later he came to me, secretly, once he thought it was safe. As for why... John, in the end, he did it to save your life."

John stopped, stood stock-still. "My life?"

"And the lives of others... but had it not been for you, I am truly not certain which way the equation might have balanced. But if Sherlock had not successfully convinced the onlookers and the world as a whole that he had killed himself, you would have been instantly executed by sniper fire."

John sat down again, and shakily held out his glass for a refill. Mycroft obliged. "It was all Moriarty, of course. He figured out Sherlock's vulnerable points, admittedly partly my fault, and tried to destroy him. Reputation, relationships... but he couldn't drive away the loyal Dr. John Watson. No, in the end, he simply had to ensure that he had an iron-clad threat against your life in order to neutralise my brother."

"But... it's been almost three years. Where has he been? Why so long? Was he ever..." John felt his throat tighten. "Was he ever going to come back, reclaim his life?"

"He has thought of nothing else. But as long as the threat remained, to your life and the others, not to mention his own reputation, he was unable. He has been underground, teasing out the web of criminals and intrigue that Moriarty left behind." Mycroft cleared his throat, looked intently at John.

"I would like to think that Sherlock himself would beg for your forgiveness. Someday, perhaps even soon, he may indeed do so. But for now, trapped as he is within the protective cocoon of his own damaged memory, he is not able to. I must plead in his stead, John Watson. Will you forgive him, at least conditionally, and come to his aid?"

John passed a hand in front of his eyes, as if wiping away a mist, and took a deep breath. "Damn him. He probably knew that I would forgive him anything, if he was really alive." He looked back up at Mycroft. "May I see him? Or does that have to wait on some damned complicated schedule?"

Mycroft rose. "You may see him immediately and spend as much time with him as you wish. I've had your luggage placed in the guest suite immediately across from his, by the way."

"I'll have anything I need for him? Whatever I judge necessary, medically?"

"My old friend Simon Feinstein is also here; he's a psychiatrist and has been helping with the case. I think you and he will work together well."

"All right." John rose, put his glass aside. "I want to see him now, then afterward we'll talk. I want a free hand, medically and personally. And if I don't get that, if I don't like what I see here... then by God I will take him out of here with me tonight. Somewhere."


	10. Part Ten: An Armful of Bony Friend

Part Ten: An Armful of Bony, Shuddering Friend

He entered the semi-dark room, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in the bed. He drew closer, studied the sleeping form that he saw there. Tears sprang to his eyes.

_Oh my God. It really is him._

Slowly, he approached the bed. Sherlock appeared to be asleep or unconscious. He was propped up on several pillows, with the head of the bed raised slightly. His hair, a lot longer than he'd worn it in the past - actual ringlets rather than curls - hid part of his face, but the profile and the features were unmistakable. Dark purple shadows stained the areas under his eyes, and he looked thinner than John ever remembered seeing him.

He sat on the bed, swallowed hard. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, brushed back some of the tangled curls. "Sherlock?" he murmured, all anger having fled.

Eyelids twitched briefly, then opened to reveal the pale eyes underneath. They roved briefly, then Sherlock blinked a couple of times and his gaze seemed to fix on John's face. Their eyes met, and John was treated to the sight of several naked emotions chasing themselves across his friend's face.

First, a smile... sunny and sweet, the smile that John remembered from the happy days, the times of shared adventure and shared risk, the same expression that had graced Sherlock's face when they'd giggled together in Buckingham Palace and when they'd solved an impossible case and were giddy with success. Then... doubt, mixed with fear, replaced the joyous grin.

"John... oh, God, how is it that you're here? You aren't supposed to ... you can't know..." He took a deep and shaky breath. "Oh. Oh, that wasn't supposed to happen. I asked for you, but I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't know!" The outburst ended in what was almost a sob. "You... you still think I'm dead. Thought I was dead. You were safer that way."

John let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "I'm here because you need me." He reached for his friend's hand, enclosed those long fingers in his own stubbier digits. "I wasn't doing anything much," he said with deliberate lightness, ignoring the tears that were threatening to spring forth and the emotion that was trying to clog his voice.

"John..." Tears ran from the corners of both of Sherlock's eyes, coursing sluggishly into the pillow. For a moment, John wondered why he didn't raise his free hand to wipe them away, then realized that there were soft fabric restraints on both of his friend's wrists. He cursed quietly, then started to fumble with the ties.

"Let me get those off of you." In a few seconds he had the restraints off... and then in a few more seconds he had an armful of bony, shuddering friend as Sherlock launched himself off the pillows at him. "Hey... easy, there, I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper and wrapped his arms around him so tight John could hardly breathe. He slipped his own arms about his friend and rested his chin on that head of dark hair, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not a bad dream, or a hallucination." He hugged Sherlock close, noting the way that the shoulder blades jutted forth from his back through the thin fabric. If he had always been slender before, he was positively skeletal now. "It's all right," he murmured, not certain if he was reassuring Sherlock or speaking to himself. "It's really all right now."

There followed a few minutes in which John was fairly certain that Sherlock was crying against his chest, and trying hard to hide it, but the uneven respirations and occasional gulp gave him away. With his own emotions in such tumult - anger, betrayal, relief, and inexpressible joy all fighting for a principal role - he didn't try to hurry things along, but instead welcomed the chance to close his own eyes and simply drink in the feeling of holding his presumed-dead and miraculously-alive dearest friend. _Later... the explanations can come later._

At last he felt a subtle shift in Sherlock's posture, a slight drawing-back, and he loosened his own grip on his friend's shoulders and carefully, reluctantly, removed his arms and lowered him back to the bed. He smiled slightly to see the red-rimmed eyes and other evidence of emotion on that so-familiar face. _Grew a heart while you were gone, did you?_

Sherlock scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, obviously self-conscious. "How... how did you find me?"

"Your brother sent for me. He said you'd been asking for me, that ... that you were having trouble with your memory." He took Sherlock's hand again, squeezed it. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Sherlock's eyes closed again, and for a moment John thought he might have fallen asleep. But they fluttered back open, with a faraway look. "I'm... not really sure, John. I know I'm at Mycroft's house. But I don't know how I got here."

"Try," urged John. "He says you showed up ill, that you collapsed on his doorstep from some kind of overdose. You don't remember that?"

A quick head shake. "No. I think... I remember bits and pieces since I ... since I jumped. Since I had to fake my death. Actually, rather more than bits and pieces, but John, it wasn't exactly a happy time."

John squeezed his friend's hand again. "I can imagine. Well, no, I can't, because I don't really understand what you were doing. Mycroft seems to think you were close to being finished, coming home again."

"Yes... close to my goals." Sherlock closed his eyes and winced. "I remember... I remember, I think, stopping here for a night, talking to Mycroft about something I was going to do. Enlisting his help, even. But..." he trailed off, and reached up with his free hand to rub at his temples. "I'm sorry. But it hurts. My head hurts when I try to think about it."

Indeed, to John's practised eye, he looked pale, sweaty, ill. When he opened his eyes again they were dark with pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I can't seem to get any closer than that."

"Then don't." John ran his free hand through Sherlock's sweaty and tousled curls. "Go to sleep. I'm going to go talk with your brother. I'll be back."


	11. Part Eleven: Exactly Two People

Part Eleven: Exactly Two People in the World

John came into the sitting room, closed the door behind him and sat down on the armchair. He took the fresh glass of scotch that Mycroft handed him, wordlessly.

"How is he?"

John was silent for a moment, swirling the amber liquid and ice cubes. "Damaged," he finally answered. "Damaged, and hurting, and unable to remember. But his basic personality seems intact..." He cleared his throat. "Actually, scratch that. He's changed a lot. He's far more vulnerable than I've ever seen him, far more emotional. Considerate, even. He apologised several times."

Mycroft stared at his own drink. "Do you think he will recover, John?"

"Perhaps. He's not broken, not completely. His memory... it's not complete, but he now remembers everything that happened before his faked suicide. And some of what came after."

"But nothing of what happened before he showed up here that night?"

"No. That must be the key." John took a big swig of the excellent, peaty scotch. "Mycroft... you said he came here, a few days before that, and told you of a plan he was working on."

"Yes. He tried to convince me it was well-thought out. I thought it was dangerous, but that it just might work." He looked down at his own drink. "He planned a meeting with one of Moriarty's last known assassins, and was going to be disguised as yet another of Moriatry's operatives. He had some kind of bait - false, of course - and was going to be pretending to trade it for safety; his alias apparently had quite a price on his head in certain parts of the world.

"Something went badly wrong; I found out later that the police found two dead bodies and a lot of blood late that night. Sherlock turned up on my doorstep. Some of my own trusted people are working to get more information on the identities of the... victims, but you can understand why I'm not in a hurry to involve any official agencies."

"Christ." John put his head in his hands for a moment. "You think he killed them?"

"Let's just say that I strongly suspect that he may have killed one of them. From what little I have been able to find out, though, that one was Moriarty's operative, and Sherlock's entire objective that evening. The other person... is a bit of a mystery, so far."

John swallowed hard, clutched at his glass so hard that he thought he might just shatter it if he didn't let go. Slowly, he did so. "Is that what he has been doing for the last three years, Mycroft? Killing people? An assassin?" _My best friend, the man with the brain of a brilliant scientist, who matched wits with the criminals because it was a game, who was still, inside, the boy who wanted to be a pirate ... nothing more than a killer?_

"Actually, for the most part ... no. He has been eliminating threats, but until now, mainly by non-lethal means. He's managed to get most of them locked up in various nasty prisons around the world, sometimes by his wits alone, sometime using drugs to incapacitate them. A few times, I seconded him with some, shall we say, confidential assistants..."

"Thugs. Muscle," supplied John.

"... and I regret to say that it appears they were forced to kill in order to protect Sherlock, a few times. But the rendezvous he set up at the pub? If he killed, deliberately, by his own hand, that was the first time."

John sat back, heavy heart feeling a little lighter. "So, we know this much at least... something went sour that night. So someone may still be looking for him, trying to kill him, and something traumatic happened to him that he didn't expect." He thought for a moment. "Mycroft, we need to make things as normal as possible for him. Stop dehumanizing him, get him out of those restraints, off everything but the lightest of anxiolytics and sleep aids. And that hospital bed has got to go."

"He needs close monitoring, John. He's tried to kill himself at least four times, with no memory of having done so." He toyed with his glass while he gave John a quick briefing on Sherlock's suicide attempts.

"I'll stay with him. Night and day, if need be. So put another bed in there for me..." John trailed off. "No, on second thought, just put one big bed in there and shove it up against the wall. He won't be able to get past me without waking me up, and the contact will be good for him, break down any remaining barriers." He looked squarely at Mycroft. "When I need a break from him, you'll sit with him. Not a nurse, not a servant. Sherlock trusts exactly two people in the world to see him like this."

Mycroft nodded. "I begin to see your point."

"We do this my way. I'll review his meds... I can see a role for an antidepressant for a while, and meds to help with sleep, but nothing to cloud his thinking or dull his pain. He's got pain in there and he needs to get it out. This was a start, tonight, but there's a lot more in there. It's like a festering abscess."

Mycroft rose. "I'll get the staff started on swapping beds. Is he asleep?"

"Just drifting off. I'll go in and wake him up and move him to the armchair, and stay with him. Or maybe he'd like a shower. Either way, I'll take responsibility for his safety."


	12. Part Twelve: To Hell and Back

Part Twelve: To Hell and Back

In the end, the staff was amazingly efficient. John had time to remove the restraints completely and help Sherlock to a chair. He took the opportunity to turn on some good light and perform a more thorough exam, all the while speaking quietly and soothingly to his friend and patient. Sherlock stared straight ahead the whole time, haunted eyes fixed on some distant point, clearly awaiting the comforting veil of darkness.

Bruises around the neck were consistent with the story of the hanging attempt. John traced them sorrowfully with his fingers, but there was nothing to do except wait for them to heal. He heard a slight hiss of pain from Sherlock as his finger brushed against the worst patch, under his left ear. _Must have been where he had the knot._ He felt his own throat tighten slightly, and veered quickly away from that mental picture.

"Let's have a look at the wrists," he murmured. He carefully unwrapped the bandages and inspected the wounds. Healing well now, despite the damage that Sherlock had done with the paper clip a few days earlier. But the original cuts had been deep; John was shaken at the size of the wounds. These were not the tentative scratches of an adolescent 'cutter'; these were the residua of a clear and purposeful attempt of a grown man to end his life. Sherlock would bear the scars for the rest of his days. He replaced the bandages with fresh gauze and ointment, and straightened up.

"Dr. Watson?" He heard a low and respectful voice, and turned to see the red-headed maid. "We're all finished in here. I've brought your luggage and placed it in the sitting room for now. Is there anything else you need?"

He turned to look at the bed. Big enough for two to sleep comfortably, but small enough that he knew he'd wake up at any attempt of Sherlock to get out of bed, and pushed up against the wall, just as he'd specified. "No, that's perfect, thank you. Stay here just a moment, please."

He dashed into the sitting room, rummaged until he found pyjamas and dressing gown, then returned to the bedchamber. Sherlock was still in the armchair. "That will be all, thank you," he said somewhat awkwardly. She nodded and left silently.

John changed into night attire, then put a hand under Sherlock's elbow. "All right. Off to the bathroom with you. I'll let you have some privacy, but leave the door open a few inches. If this was a psych hospital I'd be in there with you... or someone would ... but we'll try this for now."

Sherlock was in and out of the bathroom quickly and gave John no cause for alarm. He breathed a sigh of relief; bathrooms, even with all of the obvious dangers removed, were full of ways for a patient to harm himself. He walked Sherlock over to the bed and helped him in then made a flying visit to the bathroom himself, leaving the door slightly ajar so that he could listen to Sherlock. _His safety is going to have to trump my modesty, and his._

Finally he approached the bed. Sherlock was all the way over on the far side, pressed up against the wall. John lifted the blankets and slid into the cool sheets.

"Are they all gone?" he heard softly.

"There's no-one here except you and I, Sherlock."

He felt motion next to him, and then the pressure of a head on his shoulder, of a forehead coming to rest against his ear. Instinctively he slipped his arm around those too-thin shoulders and gathered his friend closer.

"Is that better?" he whispered.

He felt Sherlock nod against him in the dark. "Yes, much better. Thank you." John smiled in spite of himself.

"So formal. Is this the same man who used to order me to pass him his mobile phone when it was in his own pocket all the while?"

"I'm not sure, John. I'm not sure I am the same man. I've been to Hell and back."

John felt tears sting at his own eyes. "I know you have. And I'm here to help you now, to take care of you."

"Do you... can you forgive me? For leaving you, for tricking you?"

"I forgave you before I came into this room, Sherlock. Your brother explained it all, even before you tried to." He thought for a moment. "That's not to say that the subject is closed; I've still got questions. But they can wait until you're better."

"I'm so glad," whispered Sherlock. He moved his head so that now it lay on John's chest. "I spent a lot of time worrying about that, while I was gone. That you wouldn't be able to forgive me."

Silence for a few minutes. John rested his own chin on the head of dark curls, trying to get his mind to quiet and relax. It had been admittedly, a most tumultuous sort of day.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Forgive me... but there are still some things I don't remember. I have to ask... were we lovers?"

John almost choked at the blunt question, but tried to hide his reaction. "No..." he said slowly. "No, we weren't. We were flatmates, of course, and we were - are - very close friends. You've saved my life and I've saved yours. We've helped each other through some rough times."

He could feel Sherlock nodding again. "That's what I thought, but it seemed so natural to curl up with you like this. I had to be sure." A very faint chuckle. "Will you be offended if I say I'm relieved?"

"Not at all. You're not my type."

"Who is your type, John?"

"Any woman that will put up with having you around, apparently. Now go to sleep."

He heard Sherlock chuckle slightly, then felt his friend's skinny arms both come around him, tentatively. "John... I don't know how Mycroft found you, or brought you here..."

"The usual. He kidnapped me."

"But I need to thank you. I feel... better than I've felt for days. There's still something going on with my mind, my memory. It's not right. But I feel like I can face it now."

John turned on his side, returned the embrace. "You're going to be okay, Sherlock. You will. It's just going to take some time. And I'll be here with you, every step of the way."

They fell asleep that way, both giving and receiving much-needed comfort.


	13. Part Thirteen: Too Much Time Brooding

Part Thirteen: Too Much Time Brooding

Mycroft looked up, surprise evident on his face as John walked into the breakfast room. John held up a hand.

"I know... I said he shouldn't be left alone. But he was deeply asleep, so I decided to stretch a point and left the nurse watching him. I'll be back before he can wake up and be alarmed; she'll summon me immediately if the situation changes. I wanted to talk with you for a bit without him."

"You'll hear no criticism from me, Dr. Watson." Mycroft lifted the coffeepot. "Coffee? The food is over on the sideboard; please help yourself to whatever you would like."

"Coffee would be lovely. Thank you." John served himself a luxurious plate of bacon, eggs, and broiled tomatoes, and seated himself across from Mycroft. He snagged a couple of slices of toast from the toast rack and spread them thickly with marmalade.

"Ah, that's good," John said after a few moments of silent, wolfish eating. A hot breakfast was a luxury he rarely took time for in his new life in Aberdeen. "Nothing like a good shock to work up an appetite."

He grinned at Mycroft, his usual irritation at Sherlock's supercilious brother having fled somehow the night before. He was back in the London area, the sun was shining, Sherlock was alive, if not completely well (although the bastard still owed him a more detailed explanation), he'd slept better last night than he had in months, and his breakfast was delicious.

_Happy_, he realised. _I'm happy_.

"So, tell me," he asked Mycroft, as he chased a bit of bacon around his plate. "Before you kidnapped me down here, how was Sherlock spending his days? How was Dr. Feinstein working with him?"

"Daily therapy sessions, though not always at the same time each day. Usually in the late afternoon. Other than that, we've encouraged him to read, work puzzles, that sort of thing."

"Exercise?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Too risky to let him outside for walks. Too much chance that someone would see him - after all, the man is supposed to be dead - and too much chance that he would try to make a run for it." He eyed John speculatively. "Perhaps, having you here would change that."

John stabbed at a broiled tomato, watched with childish delight as the juices squirted out. "It does. It will. He needs fresh air and exercise. We'll put a hat on him, sunglasses or some such... but walk he will, whether he wants to or not. He's spending too much time brooding; it's only giving his mind time to go in circles and find new ways to hide from reality." He gulped coffee. "When can I meet with the psychiatrist? God, this is good bacon, Mycroft... I could get used to this."

"I hope you'll stay here as long as we need your help," Mycroft answered, favoring John with a thin smile. "If the bacon is a factor in your daily contentment than I shall make certain we have plenty."


	14. Part Fourteen: Vulnerable and Broken

Part Fourteen: Vulnerable and Partly Broken

They gathered around the conference table. John put his elbows on the table, leaned forward.

"Essentially, what we're having here is a care conference, in the simplest of terms. Mycroft, you're the family and next-of-kin. Dr. Feinstein -"

"Please, call me Simon."

"Simon, then. You're the specialist, the psychiatrist. Me, I'm the primary care provider. Never mind the fact that I'm also his closest friend and that until yesterday I hadn't even known he was alive for almost three bloody years... I still probably know the adult Sherlock Holmes better than anyone on earth. Together, we'll need to figure out what needs to happen to bring Sherlock back to himself."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "You think that together, we have the answers."

"If we don't, who does?" John pulled the paper patient chart toward him. "In the end, time is on our side. I'm no psychiatrist," he nodded at Simon, "but it seems to me that given enough peace and security and safety, Sherlock is going to start to recover. We can supply those for him, yes? Mycroft, is there any hidden timetable here? Any mysterious deadline we are working against?"

"No. Only Sherlock's own repeated... self-destructive episodes."

"And we're doing what we can to supervise him. I left him playing cards with the nurse and your maid, Mycroft, and he'll be fine for a little while... but I'll need to be back in there before he gets unreasonable. So..." John raised a finger. "Item number one. Medications. Simon, is this his current med list?" He gestured at the second page of the chart.

Simon nodded. "He was extremely agitated after his first day here. I want to start weaning them down as soon as possible, though, now that he's calmer."

"We're on the same page, then. Please do so. I agree that he could use an SSRI for a while... God knows the past few months must have depleted his serotonin, and the fluoxetine might actually make him eat, which would be fantastic. And he is likely to continue to need something for sleep. He' s never been a great sleeper, any more than he's ever been a good eater, but right now he needs his rest." John closed the chart. "I'll take care of making him eat and exercise, and monitor his weight and wound healing and general health. Simon, do you plan to continue his daily therapy?"

"Yes. With perhaps some hypnosis, if we don't make progress without it and if he doesn't get too agitated. I do think that bringing his memory back is the key to everything."

"I agree. I think his subconscious is trying to protect him from something. Mycroft..."

"Yes?"

John shook his head. "In a way, you have the hardest job. Family. You stand by and support, and act as Sherlock's legal voice in matters for which he isn't quite competent."

"I've done that all of his life."

"He needs more, this time. He needs understanding, and patience, and even affection. He's vulnerable, partly broken, and not himself. In some ways, Mycroft, you are going to find yourself dealing with the Sherlock you remember from his childhood."

"I can do that."

"Then we're agreed." John stood up. "I'm going to go rescue those poor women from having to play cards with a sociopathic genius. Simon, I'll see you this afternoon. I want to sit in on the therapy session."


	15. Part Fifteen: Therapy, Not Interrogation

Part Fifteen: Therapy, Not Interrogation

John had lunch with Sherlock in his suite, eating heartily of the broiled salmon filet and delicately steamed vegetables. _Forget getting exercise for Sherlock... if I keep eating three meals a day cooked by someone who's actually good at it, I'm going to start putting on weight._ I need to find time to at least go walking; hopefully I can take Sherlock with me.

Sherlock pushed the food around on his plate and ate a few bites, staring morosely at what remained. "It's too much like hospital food," he said at last.

"Sherlock, give it a chance. It's not bad." He took another bite. "The fish is perfectly cooked."

"It's bland, and it's healthy. And I'm not hungry." He speared a floret of broccoli on his fork, frowned at it. "I wonder if Mycroft's cook can make a curry?" He let the fork clatter onto his plate. "Probably not. He probably advertised specifically for a cook who can only make upper-class English food. No spices or garlic... we can't let ourselves become too ethnic, now, can we?"

John grinned in spite of himself. Sherlock complaining petulantly about his brother's dining tastes was a definite step up from the confused and tearful young man of the previous night. "Was he like that when you were growing up?"

"No, he was worse." Sherlock picked up his fork again, poked at the fish. "He only wanted sweets. Used to hide his Brussels sprouts under the napkin. Then after Mummy caught on to that, he tried paying me to eat them, just so that he could get to the pudding. I was only about four years old. It worked, once, then I jacked up the price and he wouldn't pay any more. I don't remember what he tried after that."

John stifled a giggle. "Pretty mercenary for a four-year-old."

"I had to stay on my toes, around Mycroft." Sherlock leaned back. "I suppose that it's interrogation time again, this afternoon?"

"Yes." John put his own fork down, appetite suddenly diminished. "Or no. Therapy, Sherlock, not interrogation."

"But you're here now. Can't we... can't you just take me home?"

John shook his head. "For one thing, we've no home to go to. I've been in touch with Mrs. Hudson, off and on, but I'm assuming she's rented out our old flat -"

"She hasn't. Mycroft has been paying the rent on it since you left."

"- and all of my things are up in Aberdeen. But even without that... Sherlock, you aren't well enough to leave here yet. We need to figure out what's going on in that head of yours." He leaned closer, tapped Sherlock's forehead with his finger. "You need to get your memory back first." _And prove to me that you aren't going to keep trying to kill yourself,_ he added mentally.

There was a crisp knock at the door, and the red head of the maid popped in. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson... Dr. Feinstein is ready for you both. He wants to meet in the Blue Parlor today, where there's a bit more room."

Sherlock set aside his lunch tray and unfolded himself out of his chair. "Come along, John. Interrogation time."


	16. Part Sixteen: Everything Hurts So Much

Part Sixteen: Everything Hurts So Much

John watched, fascinated, as the psychiatrist dropped Sherlock easily into a light hypnotic state. _I need to learn how to do this. Could make all the difference in trying to live with the crazy sod._

Live with him... was he going to do that again? Leave his work up in Aberdeen, come back down to London, to his old life, that wild and unpredictable existence that he'd missed so much?

_I suppose it all depends on what we can accomplish here. We've got to get him back first. Concentrate on that for now, Watson._

He tuned back in to what Simon was murmuring. "All right, now, we're going to start off easily. Keep focusing on my voice. Breathe deeply, slowly. That's it. Now... tell me about this morning. What time did you get up? What did you have for breakfast?"

Sherlock answered these questions in a low, calm voice, and John listened as Dr. Feinstein led him through several more routine details of his day. Finally, the psychiatrist leaned a little closer.

"Good. That's very good, Sherlock. Now we're going to back to yesterday, and you're going to tell me about what happened then."

A faint smile changed Sherlock's face. "John. John arrived yesterday."

"How does that make you feel, Sherlock?"

"Good. Happier. Safe."

John knew he was blushing slightly, even though Sherlock couldn't see him and the psychiatrist wasn't looking his direction. He startled a bit as the door opened, quietly, and Mycroft slipped into the room.

Mycroft took a seat near John, and the interview continued.

"Excellent, Sherlock. That's all you need to remember about yesterday. Now we're going to go back a little further... to three days ago. Tuesday. Two days before John came here... Are you there yet?"

The smile left Sherlock's face."Yes, I'm there." His voice remained calm, but became more monotone. "Long day. Lonely," he added.

"Tell me about the day. Let's start with waking up, and breakfast."

Once again, Simon took Sherlock through some easy, routine questions. He established that Sherlock woke up around 0800 and that he drank coffee and ate a toasted whole-meal muffin with marmalade and a soft-boiled egg for breakfast.

"In an egg cup," he asserted. "_My_ egg cup. Mycroft saved it for me. The one with feet."

John grinned, and quirked an eyebrow at Mycroft, who studiously ignored him.

"That's good, Sherlock. What did you do after that?"

"Took a shower. Tried to read for a while."

John and Mycroft listened as the days events unfolded. John tried not to think about his friend, spending a long and boring day mostly by himself, with his memory in tatters. This ... illness, must have been so hard on him. Nothing novel, nothing stimulating, and only Mycroft and a psychiatrist to talk to. No mysteries to solve, except that of his own memory.

Finally they arrived at evening. John could see Sherlock's brow furrowing more and more as they worked their way through the day, and now a few small beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

"All right, Sherlock, now it's late, and you're alone in your bedroom. The maid and the nurse have checked on you and they think that you're getting ready to sleep. What happens next?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I start thinking. Thinking too much. I don't know." His voice rose in pitch.  
The psychiatrist frowned slightly. "That's all right. Take a few deep breaths, go a little deeper. You are very calm now, very safe, nothing can upset you." He paused for a moment. "Now... what happens next?"

"I start crying," came the monotone, wooden response. "I'm crying, and everything hurts so much. It hurts too much to bear. I can't stand it."

"And then what happens, Sherlock?"

"I can't stand it," he repeated. "I want to put an end to the pain. God, that's all I want, an end to the pain, why do they keep stopping me?" His voice stayed quietly, but John could see the tears beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes.

"What do you do, Sherlock?" Simon's voice remained very quiet yet very clear.

"I'm frantic. I can't think. They've taken it all from me. Everything I could use, everything I had. I... start going through the wardrobe. One of my oldest socks is starting to unravel, and that's what gives me the idea."

Now John closed his eyes._ No. I don't want to hear this. I lived through watching him kill himself - or so I thought. At least that was fake. This time he really wanted to die._

"I get all my socks, all of them, and I climb into bed. In case someone comes in. And I start unraveling them as fast as I can, and stuffing the yarn under the bedding. My tears dry as I realise I now have a way out." Now he's talking faster, a bit louder, almost agitated. "Once I've got them all unraveled, I twist the fibers into a rope. It's not hard to do, if you know a bit about ropes. Then... then I jump out of bed, look around the room for something strong enough."

"And then?" prompted Simon.

"I find the curtain rod. I pull on it and it seems to support my weight. It's attached to the studs in the wall, very strong. I pull my chair close, and loop the rope around the rod, and around my neck in a slipknot. I move quickly; I'm afraid someone will come in and stop me."

A quick intake of breath from Mycroft. John opened his eyes, saw Mycroft turn away, shaking his head.

"I jump off the chair, and it's working, everything is getting soft and fuzzy, and it doesn't hurt any more."

Hearing that, John began to feel tears leaking from his own eyes, and bowed his head in grief at his friend's pain.

"But... something happens. Someone comes in. I think... I think it's Mycroft. He's shouting and he's crying." Sherlock shudders. "I think he cuts me down. He holds me and shouts for help."

John rubbed at his face, trying to rub away the tears, and stole another glance at Mycroft, who looked pale but composed.

"And then... I sleep." He swallowed visibly, and now John could see that he was trembling slightly. "Why? Why wouldn't they let me? Mycroft, why won't you let me die?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, and his whispered response was harsh in the silence. "Simon, please! Bring him back. Now."

"He needs to get through it Mycroft," murmured the psychiatrist. "But I think we're almost done. Sherlock," he said, more loudly, "why were you trying to kill yourself?"

More sweat sprang out of Sherlock's forehead, and he writhed slightly, almost as if he were bound. "I... I... I shouldn't live. It's all my fault. It's my fault, I didn't know that she was there, that she would try to help me, that he would hurt her." Now he began to weep in earnest, and it was all John could do not to go to him.

"I think that's all we are going to get this time," said Simon quietly. "He's done with events and moved into emotions. I'll wind this up. Sherlock," he said, placing his hand on the detective's forehead, "listen to my voice. Take deep, slow breaths. Be calm, be safe."

Slowly Sherlock's weeping ceased, and he begin to breathe more easily. "All right, Sherlock, we're almost done. Soon you are going to come back to your normal state. Only now, you are going to remember what we just talked about. The emotions will be softer, more removed, but you are going to remember what happened. More deep breaths... okay, now, open your eyes."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open, displaying a set of reddened eyes. Slightly heartsick, John rose and moved closer, taking his friend's hand in his own.

"Sherlock... how do you feel?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you all right?"

His friend nodded shakily. "I... wouldn't care to go through that every day." He raised his free hand, wiped away the tears. "But... that's what I'm going to have to do, isn't it?" His voice was quiet but laced with despair as he looked at Dr. Feinstein.

"Yes... Sherlock, I am afraid you are correct. At least, until we get the answers that you need."


	17. Part Seventeen: Only Way to the Truth

Part Seventeen: The Only Way to the Truth

John took a deep breath and pushed open the door into the Blue Parlor.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. How is he?" Mycroft seemed unable to meet John's eyes.

"I suppose he's well enough." He sat down in the nearest chair. "I gave him a sedative... a moderate dose of Valium, and sat with him until he fell asleep. The nurse is with him now." He folded his arms. "He was upset, though, pale and almost shocky. Very shaken. Dr. Feinstein, was all of that necessary?"

"Very much so. It's the only way we will get to the truth... and we'll not bring him back to himself until we've gotten there."

"Does he always react like that?" John asked.

Simon frowned. "I don't understand."

"After your hypnotherapy... does he always react like that? Is it always that hard on him?"

"Ah!" Simon smiled slightly. "Now I get your meaning. Dr. Watson... while I've briefly attempted hypnotherapy on Sherlock prior to this, we've never been successful. He always popped right back out of any trance, and would start making sarcastic comments. I can only conclude that it was your presence today that made the difference. Clearly, he trusts you... because you were there, he let himself go under. And remember."

"Oh." John sat back to digest this. "How much of this sort of thing will he need to go through?"

"Again, until we get to the truth, and therefore help him to resolve his internal conflicts. Several more sessions, I should think."

John rubbed one hand across his eyes, suddenly immensely tired. "Every day?"

"If he tolerates it, yes."

"I'm ... concerned about the effect this may have on him." John shifted the angle of his gaze slightly so as to include Mycroft more obviously. "He is not a man accustomed to expressing emotion easily. Having to face his own despair, over and over... what will that do to him?"

"John," Mycroft said quietly, "my brother has already tried to kill himself at least four times. How much worse can it be?"

John sighed. "You're right, of course. He's already in bad shape. But... it's hard to watch him be so reduced, so despondent."

Simon leaned forward. "In the long run, John, it will be worth it. He will need to experience some short-term pain, in order to find peace in the end."


	18. Part Eighteen: I Don't Trust Myself

Part Eighteen: I Don't Trust Myself

The next few days followed the same heartbreaking pattern.

Each morning, John left Sherlock sleeping and slipped out to have a quiet breakfast with Mycroft. They spoke little after that first morning, both clearly preoccupied with the enormity of the task that lay ahead of them. Afterwards John would go back to the suite, get Sherlock up, fed, and showered, and drag him outside for a walk. They did resort to the use of a brimmed hat that Sherlock could use to hide his face a little, but he refused the sunglasses. It was really no matter; with the weight he'd lost, the scruffy beard growth, the long ringlets, and the plain, nondescript clothing that Mycroft supplied for him, Sherlock looked nothing like his old self.

He made Sherlock stay outside until lunchtime. When the weather was fine, they walked; when it rained or misted, they sat in the little garden shelter out back. John actually liked those times the best; the falling rain and the misty fog gave him the sense that they were somehow cut off from the real world, protected from it.

They always ate lunch together, back in the suite. Alarmed by Sherlock's decreasing weight and continued complaints about the food, John had pleaded with Mycroft. "Either get your cook to make things a bit more interesting, or at least let us order some take-away. He's going to dry up and blow away if he doesn't eat a bit more."

But even the wonderful ethnic aromas exuded by the paper take-away boxes did little to tempt Sherlock's appetite at lunch. He approached the food with more enthusiasm, and no complaints, but was unable to eat very much. Most days, the majority of it was packed away uneaten to be reheated the next day.

Then, every afternoon, John had to watch and listen as Dr. Feinstein guided Sherlock through another hypnotherapy session. He heard Sherlock describe one day how he had stolen the razor and slashed his wrists open, and the following day had to listen to an account of how he had re-opened the wounds deliberately a few days later. The pain and grief in his friend's voice came through so realistically that John finally broke down and wept openly, as silently as he could so as to not startle Sherlock out of his trance.

That day, he ended up skipping the post-session debriefing with Mycroft and the psychiatrist, and went straight back to the suite with his pale, shaken friend. _The hell with Valium... what you need right now is me_. He had guided Sherlock to the small sofa, sat down with him, and just held him for a long time, until he stopped trembling and fell asleep, slumped against John's shoulder. Then he had unwrapped the wrist bandages to reveal the almost-healed slash wounds, and stared at them wordlessly until his eyes swam again with tears that dripped softly on the pink scars.

They were preparing for Sherlock's fourth hypnosis session, picking at some Lebanese take-away, when Sherlock suddenly turned pale and lurched to his feet. John, rising more slowly, followed his friend's mad dash to the bathroom, arriving in time to see and hear Sherlock lose what little lunch he had eaten.

He stood back a bit, in the bathroom doorway, while Sherlock retched violently into the toilet. Finally, when he seemed finished, he moved closer. "Here," he said quietly, handing Sherlock a mug of water. "Rinse out your mouth then drink a little." He grabbed a flannel, moistened it with cold water, and passed it silently to his friend. "Put this on your forehead."

Surprisingly compliant, Sherlock followed both instructions, and eventually rose on unsteady legs. John was quick to slip a hand under his elbow. "Are you all right?"

"Oof." Sherlock made it back to his chair, sat down with little grace. "John, I think my stomach just tried to exit via my esophagus. Of course I'm not all right."

John made a rude noise, but continued to hover. "What was that all about, then?" He studied Sherlock's face... still ghost-pale, with beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "How long have you felt ill?" He touched the back of his hand to that pale brow, checking for fever. Sherlock batted it away with obvious irritation.

"Stop it, John. I'm not sick."

"I beg to differ. You just vomited up your lunch."

"Yes, but I'm not ill. I just can't eat."

John frowned. "Have you been throwing up before this?" He couldn't imagine that he wouldn't have noticed; he and Sherlock had been practically living in each others' laps.

"No... but I've been nauseated." Now he looked green, and closed his eyes. "John... please take the food away."

He jumped to comply, quickly scooping everything back into the takeaway containers and storing the paper boxes in the little refrigerator that Mycroft's staff had brought in for their use. Sherlock sat very still with his eyes closed the entire time; eventually a little color came back into his face. John came back over and sat next to him.

"Care to explain a little more, now?" he asked quietly.

"John... you are spending practically 24 hours a day with me. You figure it out."

"You've been feeling like this every day," John guessed. "Maybe not so severely, but enough to keep you from eating much lunch." Sherlock nodded wearily. "You eat a little better at the other meals, so ... " He trailed off. "The hypnosis sessions."

"Spot on."

"You're sick at lunchtime, because you're worried about the hypnotherapy every afternoon." John shook his head. "Why didn't you say anything before this?"

"And you would have done, what, exactly?"

"I don't know." John thought for a moment. "I supposed I might have tried to give you something for the nausea, or better yet... something to calm you before the sessions. That wouldn't interfere with the hypnosis a bit, in fact might even make it easier." He rose abruptly. "Let's do that. Let's get some Xanax into you; it's what is usually used for panic attacks." He fumbled around for the locked bag that he used to store Sherlock's prescription medications.

"Or you could just help me break out of here," came the quiet response, just as John's hand touched the medical bag.

"Sherlock, you know I can't..." He turned, then, in time to see Sherlock's face crumple briefly, like the last remains of a campfire collapsing inward. For a second or two, he saw the naked pain and despair on his friend's face, then he heard Sherlock take a deep breath and watched the mask of blank indifference return. He put the bag down and came back to his friend's side, crouching down by the chair.

"You know I can't do that," he repeated. "Sherlock... we're so close to figuring out what's wrong, why your memory isn't working properly. Only a few more sessions, I think. Don't you want to get yourself back?"

"That's what the psychiatrist says." Sherlock spat the word out. "The John Watson I used to know would listen to me, first... and would find a way to break me out of anywhere I was being held against my will." His voice shook. "He wouldn't countenance a course of therapy that was making me sick and haunting my dreams."

John lay one hand tentatively on Sherlock's forearm; the muscles were rigid. "You've been having nightmares? I ... I'm sorry. I thought you were sleeping all right."

"I seem to be able to wake myself up before I get to the point of being noisy." He swallowed loudly. "John... please help me. Either call a stop to all of this, overrule Mycroft and that ... pipe-smoking academic who calls himself a psychiatrist, or find a way to sneak us out of here."

"Mycroft would find us. You know that." He moved his hand up to Sherlock's shoulder, squeezed gently, and almost smiled to see his friend lean his head toward that source of comfort. He raised his hand, cupped Sherlock's face with the lightest of touches.

"Let's compromise." He took a deep breath. "I'll talk to Simon. We'll call off today's session, and let you rest. We'll get some food into you, and plenty of sleep, even if I do have to give you some sedatives. Then in a day or two, we'll do it one more time. I'll put my foot down and tell Simon that he has one more chance to solve the mystery. If we don't succeed, then we leave here anyway and I take you back to Baker Street to recover in your own time and in your own way.

"But Sherlock... you can't forget what started all of this. You were trying to kill yourself. You have to give me your absolutely binding promise that you will tell me if you start feeling like you might try it again."

He felt Sherlock's jaw working for a moment, then heard the low response. "I promise. But John... stay with me, stay close. Here, or at Baker Street. I don't trust myself ... oh, God, I don't trust myself." His eyes closed tightly as tears began to run down his face, while John slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.


	19. Part Nineteen: Shaken Him To HIs Core

Part Nineteen: Shaken Him To His Core

"All right, this is it," announced Simon quietly. "We have to solve the mystery this time... we're going take him through that last memory, find out what happened the night he showed up here. Mycroft." He turned to Sherlock's brother. "I've got those keywords you gave me, from the conversation you had with him before he left. That will help."

"You understand that this will be the last session?" warned John. "Even if it's inconclusive, we stop after today. And then in a day or two, I'm taking him away from here."

Simon nodded. "It all depends on how coherent he is, and how he tolerates it. If he becomes severely distressed, then I'll have to pull him out of it, and we'll have to let nature take its course. But ... this is important, both of you." He leaned back in his chair. "Sherlock is bound to be more upset this time. Whatever happened that night has somehow shaken him to his core and fragmented his memory. It isn't going to be pretty. I promise to bring him out if there is any danger or if it's clear we aren't going to get any more information... but you mustn't interfere, either of you."

John frowned. "Simon... meaning no disrespect, but you're a psychiatrist. And you'll be busy with the whole process of hypnosis. Are you certain you can recognise physical distress in time?"

"John, if you see anything that causes you concern, then signal me. Visually, not audibly, nothing that Sherlock can hear." He stopped and appeared to think for a moment. "Raise one finger if you are mildly concerned, raise your entire hand if you sense anything that truly requires us to abort the session."

John sat back satisfied, just as there was a respectful rap at the door. It swung open, to reveal the tense-looking maid with Sherlock a few steps behind. "Ah, excellent, Shannon. Sherlock, come in and sit down; we're ready for you now."

Sherlock settled into the armchair once more, reluctance visible in his body language. Simon leaned toward him and quietly went through the usual words that he used to start the hypnosis process. John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and entered the trance.


	20. Part Twenty: Bit of Darkness

Part Twenty: An All-Important Bit of Darkness

Sherlock pretended to stare at the dregs of his drink, while alertly listening for the approach of the man he was there to eliminate. _He's late... should have been here twenty minutes ago. Not like him, doesn't fit the profile at all._

Just as he was trying to decide whether to stall by ordering another drink, or some other method, the pub door opened. Situated where he was, angled toward the door but with his face half-hidden in the shadows, he was able to make out the man's features in a split second. _Tall, hulking, scar on the left cheekbone, broken nose, sneering expression... it's him._

Sherlock resisted the temptation to reach up and tug at the brim of his hat, pull it lower onto his face. _He needs to spot me. Not recognize me for who I really am, but spot me across the room._ Nonetheless, he waited a few heartbeats, watching the closed pub door for any sign of the entrance of a possible confederate, before sliding a bit down the hard bench of the booth seat. He'd checked around the room carefully for signs of a dangerous second opponent, but while one could never be sure, the pub's inhabitants were a harmless-looking lot. Two smiling young men barely old enough to be there legally, with pale complexions, extra pounds, and expensive smart-phones that they played with incessantly while they drank, an elderly couple, and a slender young woman with her back to him were the only customers on this gloomy weeknight.

He forced himself to look away, back at his empty pint glass, so as to not seem too interested in the new arrival, but he pulled his unused flatware closer with a casual movement. In the shiny surface of the spoon he could see a vague blur moving closer to his booth. He took a deep breath and forced his heart-rate to stop climbing, as the man actually sat down, drink in hand.

Tilting his head a little and hoping that the hat brim would hide his face a bit, and trusting to the several days/ worth of beard-stubble and worn workman's clothing to enhance his resemblance to the imprisoned Thomlinson (Kroeger had supposedly never actually met the man), he nodded briefly at his table-mate.

He'd chosen his alias carefully. Though Thomlinson had once been one of Moriarty's operatives and occasionally one of his killers, he'd primarily been a spy, a gatherer of data. Like Sherlock, he was tall and slim, well-educated and deep-voiced. They'd met in a prison in Kuala Lampur, where Sherlock had tracked him down in the hopes of getting information. Thomlinson, bitter about being abandoned by his boss and already facing the death penalty in Malaysia for possession of heroin, had spilled quite a bit of information that Sherlock was able to put to good use.

"You have the item?" The German accent was faint but recognizable to Sherlock's well-trained ear.

"I have possession of it. I don't have it on me... that would be foolish," he murmured in response. "You'll have to step outside with me, to my car."

"No games, Thomlinson."

"No games," agreed Sherlock. _No games... I'm in deadly earnest._ "Finish your drink."

They sat there for long moments in silence while Kroeger drank. Sherlock studied him surreptitiously and assumed that his opponent was doing the same to him. He noticed a slight tremor in Kroeger's hand, as well as increased perspiration and, with a daring glance at his eyes, dilated pupils. On the inside of the left arm, just below the elbow, he thought he saw the faint traces of needle-marks.

_Addict,_ he thought. _And one badly in need of a hit. That's good... that will muddy his thinking. On the other hand, he'll be hyper-alert to everything, and he's going to be desperate to get his hands on anything that will bring him funds for more._

Finally, the man finished his drink. They stood in unison and walked to the door, side by side at a wary distance, neither man clearly wanting to walk in front of the other. Sherlock managed to reach the door first, yanked it open, and gestured with one arm. He thought he heard a slight growl from Kroeger, and watched him hesitate before he stepped through. Behind him, he heard a burst of nervous-sounding laughter as the young woman at the bar bade a good-night to the bartender and started to gather up her things. _Need to get going before she gets out the door... can't afford to have any witnesses_.

"Where's your car?" Kroeger strode several steps away from him, and then turned back. It was just dark enough that Sherlock couldn't see exactly where his hands were.

"Far side of the lot." Sherlock waved one arm in the general direction of the car he had indeed obtained for this purpose (supplied, of course, by Mycroft). He slipped the other hand into his pocket, where the first syringe and needle rested. _He wants drugs? He's going to get more than he bargained for._

Now all he had to do was to get Kroeger over to the car and get him distracted enough that he could jab him with the needle. He'd used this method before, in the last few years; so much easier to smuggle a needle and syringe with a powerful sedative into a situation than a firearm. One had to get closer, but Sherlock was good at that. Get him to the car, hand over the smartphone with the data (or just enough of the data to be convincing), and jab him in a major muscle when he had both hands on the device. No plan was foolproof, but he was reasonably certain he could pull this one off. And if something happened, if he had to abort and run, the smartphone was programmed to destroy its own memory ten minutes after it had been activated.

Kroeger was a wanted man throughout the EU, so once he was unconscious Sherlock had only to tip off the authorities anonymously and his last adversary would be neutralised.

The walk to the car seemed to take a year, although Sherlock thought he could see Kroger relaxing a little when it was clear that the car was parked in a well-lit area and that Sherlock was going to precede him and open the door. Kroeger still stayed back a pace, but when Sherlock handed him the smartphone his body language definitely changed. He watched while Kroger thumbed through the surface-level directory of the authentic-appearing data that he'd stuffed the phone with. _Dammit... he's only using one hand, and his left, at that. Was I wrong about his handedness?_

_I'm going to have to try it anyway. I won't get another chance._

"Okay, it looks good." Kroeger nodded. "For this, I can get the price removed from your head. But you'd still better lay low for a while, until the word gets out."

Sherlock nodded fervently. "Deal." He gauged his distance, moved the syringe into a better position, stepped closer to Kroeger's left side while pasting his most winning smile on his face. "Did you see that I was able to include the latest from our sources in Colombia? That alone should get them to change their minds about me..." _Now!_ He pulled his hand out of his pocket and stabbed at Kroger's left upper arm with the needle, pushing the plunger down rapidly. Or trying to...

Time stood still, or seemed to do so. Liquid squirted out of the needle, while Sherlock tried to comprehend the fact that the needle had failed to fill Kroeger's deltoid muscle full of the sedative that should have dropped him to the ground in short order. He spun away, dropping the whole apparatus, just as he heard Kroeger laughing.

"New material. Like Kevlar, only puncture-proof. I've heard about your little tricks with a needle, Mr. Holmes."

He was five, maybe six paces away from the man now, and looking down the barrel of a handgun. He said nothing, only stared at that all-important bit of darkness.

"How should I kill you? A shot to the heart? Or better than killing you... I give you a terrible head injury, and you live out your miserable life with brain damage. Ah, yes, how very fitting."

Sherlock saw Kroeger's finger twitch a little on the trigger, as the killer appeared to consider his various options. He thought about diving to the ground, about rushing the man and tackling him... nothing seemed like a good option. _Keep him talking. Your mouth is your best weapon._

"You know, we could still work something out." He tried to sound less terrified than he felt. "I know what you really need. I can get some for you, the best quality, at the best price. Quickly." He took a step back, experimentally, and watched Kroeger's face.

He heard a quick intake of breath from off to his left, but didn't look there. _Someone else is here? Who?_

Concentrating on his adversary with all of his being, he didn't realise what was happening, although later the events were to replay endlessly in his mind. As if in slow motion, he saw the dark-haired young woman from the pub as she leaped on Kroger, shrieking something at him. He heard the discharge of the gun, loud even with its silencer. The young woman slumped to the ground...

... but Sherlock, gathering up all of his nervous energy, was able to close in and kick the gun from his adversary's hand, landing on top of him hard. He pulled out the second syringe that had been in his other pocket - his backup, the one loaded with a deadly drug - and this time he used it to jab the drug directly into the man's exposed neck veins. _Succinylcholine, an instant paralytic used in the OR. He's going to die, now, the bastard._ Sparing a quick glance at Kroeger's still-moving young victim, he shook his head grimly. _Whoever you are, this is for you._

Only when all motion had stilled did he climb off of the man and go to the woman. She lay face-down on the pavement, and he quailed to see the blood pooling under her. He rolled her over as gently as possible. Unaccountably, her pretty face - somehow oddly familiar - lit up at the sight of him.

'You're all right?" she asked faintly, as he brushed her dark brown hair off of her face.

"Not a scratch." He took her hand in his, and a lump rose in his throat, and then he knew that he was crying, great tears rolling down his face to splash warmly upon her. How was it that she was still alive? Her chest was a wreck, blood pouring out with every failing heartbeat. "I... I can't stay with you, but I'll call you an ambulance."

"Too late for me," she whispered. "I'm dying anyway. Stay with me, please, stay." And then, incredibly, she smiled. "I'm glad to die for you, Sherlock Holmes."

And so he picked her up, and held her close, and as the last breath left her body, he remembered that familiar face, and cried out in anguish.

"Molly! Oh, God, Molly, how could I have not recognised you?"

And the tears ran down his face, to mingle with her blood.


	21. Part Twenty One: One Everyone Forgets

Part Twenty-One: The One Everyone Forgets About

"What... who... Molly?" John's jaw dropped. "That was Molly at the pub? She's... she's dead?" He turned, startled, to the psychiatrist. "Simon, bring him out of it. Now. Please. That's got to be what did it to him." He rose and went to Sherlock's side, his mind reeling so much that he hardly heard Simon's murmured commands to his friend.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, John repeated his question. "Sherlock... you cried out that it was Molly? Dying in your arms? Are you certain?"

"Molly," he repeated fiercely. "Of course it was Molly. The sweet, gullible girl no one takes very seriously, who waits patiently in the background, the one everyone forgets about, even me. That's why I chose her to help me fake my death... I knew that Moriarty would have forgotten her, that he wouldn't think twice about her." He put his hands over his face. "She's dead. She loved me, poor foolish girl, did you know that? She helped me, she saved my life that night by jumping at Kroeger, and now she's dead!"

Mycroft half-rose. "Sherlock... if you are referring to your attractive young co-conspirator from St. Bart's, I can assure you that she is alive and well as of at least a few days ago."

"It was her!" He pounded the table, his mouth twisted with grief. "Mycroft, when have I ever been wrong about something like this?"

John, standing with his hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder, looked up. "You know... Mycroft, you're right. I just had a postcard from her a few days before you had me kidnapped." He turned his attention back to Sherlock, rubbed his shoulder. "Breathe, Sherlock. Try to calm down. I think he's right."

"Postcard," spat Sherlock contemptuously, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. "You think she's alive because she sent you a postcard? Do I really need to explain all of the ways you're wrong?"

John removed his hand, somewhat hurt. "I didn't run chemical tests on the postmark ink, like you would, or do a handwriting analysis... but it sounded like her. I had no reason to suspect anything else."

"Ahem." Mycroft cleared his throat and handed a plain manila folder to John. He took it a bit reluctantly and opened it. Inside were several photographs, all of a young woman with brown eyes and molasses-taffy hair, and a sweet smile.

The final photograph showed her in death. Mercifully, her eyes were closed, and her face was unmarked, but blood spattered her chest and throat liberally. John let out a low whistle.

"That's not Molly. There's definitely a bit of a resemblance-okay, a very strong one - but it's not her. Sherlock... you need to look at this." He placed the folder in front of Sherlock, who was sitting with arms folded, eyes closed, and tears still coursing down his cheeks. "Open your eyes and look at this."

John watched as his friend rubbed at his face again and then finally opened bleary eyes to look at the photographs. He could see when Sherlock finally took in the information, when he finally began to believe, when his facial expression changed from crippling guilt to a sort of wonder.

"That's not Molly," he murmured.

"No, you stupid git, it's not." Now he knelt in front of his friend. "Sherlock... is that what did this to you? Is that what had you trapped in your amnesia? You thought you had caused Molly to die?"

Sherlock pushed the folder, now closed, across the table. "I don't ... yes, it must have been." Eyes tightly shut again, now, with fresh tears leaking from under the lids. "I remember now. She seemed to know me and told me she was glad to die... but it wasn't Molly. She was a stranger." He gulped. "But I thought it was Molly, and I couldn't bear it. John, she was always so innocent... sometimes I couldn't stand her, but she never hurt anyone. I had some pills that I'd been carrying just in case... in case everything went sour. I took the whole bottle, then came back here and collapsed."

Now it was John's turn to swallow back tears. "And you nearly died, with all of that medication in your system. Sherlock... I don't understand. After all you had gone through, and when you were so close to your goals... you wanted to die?"

"I did, but ... I changed my mind, John. That's why I came here. I hated myself but I knew I wanted to see you again. At least once." His face crumpled.

John leaned closer and put his arms around his friend. "Sshh. You're okay now."

Time passed slowly. John sensed, rather than saw, Mycroft looking away in some embarrassment. He ignored it, focusing instead on Sherlock and his needs. Finally, when he felt that his friend had calmed, he pulled back a bit and cleared his throat.

"Mycroft. Who was she?"

"Her name was Susan Madison." Mycroft selected one of the photographs. It showed a younger Susan in a soft, billowing peach-coloured dress, next to a bride in her wedding gown. The resemblance between both smiling women was notable. "This photo was taken at her sister's wedding about twelve years ago."

John reluctantly moved away from his friend, and looked closer at the photo. "Did she know Sherlock somehow?"

Sherlock drew a shuddering breath, and gathered up a large wad of tissues to blow his nose. "I don't know her, as far as I know, except for mistakenly thinking she was Molly. But we all know my memory has not been at its best lately." His voice shook.

"As a matter of fact, there is a connection. It took my people a while to find it, but there is one." Mycroft sat back in his chair and turned his keen gaze upon his brother. "Back when Moriarty was trying to get your attention by strapping bombs to people and then leading you on a merry chase to solve the puzzle within a time limit... there was one of his victims who was a child. Sherlock, you had to solve the final puzzle with only ten seconds to go, and you did it... you saved the boy's life."

"The young boy," Sherlock said slowly. "He counted down from ten, while I had to come up with the answer. The star that shouldn't have been there... the supernova that wouldn't have been visible to an artist of that era."

"Yes." Mycroft paused briefly, and John was certain it was for dramatic effect. "Your young woman in the pub was his aunt. Her name was Susan Madison, and by all accounts she doted upon her nephew.

"We'll never know for certain, but it's my assumption that she knew of your role in the lad's rescue, and perhaps followed your career. She must have recognized you that night, seen through the bit of disguise, and ... acted accordingly."

"She saved my life," Sherlock said quietly. "Her interference gave me the time I needed. And it killed her." He met his brother's gaze.

John cleared his throat. "Mycroft... would it be possible for us to meet her family? Her sister, at least, and the boy?" He glanced sidelong at his friend, still red-eyed and motionless. "Might give us some closure."

Dr. Feinstein spoke up. "I think that would be an excellent idea."

"I'll see that you have contact information, John, and once my little brother is well enough," he inclined his head, "then you should certainly take Sherlock to meet them. For now, though... I think perhaps we are finished for the day?"

Sherlock nodded, the first real motion John had seen out of him for a few minutes. "Please," he croaked. "I'd like to rest for a while."

John touched him on the shoulder. "Go on and lie down. I'll be there in a few minutes, I promise."

As red-headed Shannon appeared and led Sherlock, solicitously, from the room, John rounded on Mycroft. "You knew all of this! You had the entire story, from your spies!"

Mycroft raised a hand. "Only some of it, John. I was able to confirm that one of the bodies was Kroeger a few days ago. With him dead, there should be no-one left to be a threat to Sherlock. The girl... while she was identified fairly early on, I did not know of the connection until last night, when one of my analysts was able to ferret out the information. Interestingly enough, she used a combination of social media and Google searches to figure it out," he mused. "I will have to have to consider promoting her."

"But you knew it wasn't Molly, then. You could have put his mind at ease on that score, at least."

"John... I've only met the lady in question one time. It never occurred to me that Sherlock would have mistaken Miss Madison for her, or that this case of mistaken identity would be the reason for his distress."

John nodded slowly, sat down again. "Okay. Sorry, Mycroft. Sometimes it's just too easy to believe that you're..." He stopped, biting his lip.

"A heartless manipulator, pulling the strings behind the scenes, making the puppets dance to my tune?" The tone was light, but John heard the bitterness behind the words. "Perhaps I am, a good deal of the time. And perhaps I am guilty of disregarding the human beings behind the schemes and plots." He grimaced. "But I have never been able to do that with my brother. He... gets under my skin."

John grinned. "He's good at that." He stood up and held out his hand. "Mycroft. Thank you for everything you've done... giving him assistance when the world thought he was dead, and doing your best to give him what he needed these last couple of weeks."

"John." Mycroft gripped his hand warmly. "I owe you my brother's life, I think, or at least his sanity. Many times over.

"Please consider this your home for as long as is needed for Sherlock to heal completely and for us to formally clear his name - including this killing of Kroeger, which I think can be framed as self-defence and successfully buried - and have him declared alive. And if there's anything else I can do for you, let me know."

"I've already got some ideas along those lines," quipped John. "Wait until I've got a steady girlfriend again, then find Sherlock a nice, complicated, juicy case that just happens to be very, very far away."


	22. Part Twenty-Two: Baring Your Soul

Part Twenty-Two: Baring Your Soul To Dead People

Sherlock finally stopped in front of a headstone. Clearly newer than some of the others nearby, it was made out of a pleasant grey granite. "Susan Grace Madison, beloved daughter, sister, and aunt" read the inscription, and then the dates of her birth and death. A sombre but elegant floral border ran around the edges of the stone.

He was a free man, now, though some of the legal details were still being sorted out. The authorities (under duress from Mycroft) had reluctantly decided that he was guilty of nothing worse than playing vigilante, since he hadn't used a deadly weapon until his own life was very seriously threatened. Mycroft had had to confiscate his supply of useful injectable medications and promise that he would now settle down, stick to solving cases, and leave the arrests to the police. John had the feeling that a certain amount of psychiatric terminology had also made an appearance in those proceedings... phrases like 'Asperger's Syndrome' and 'poor understanding of consequences' and 'immature emotional development'. Whatever... it had worked, and Sherlock wasn't going to go to prison for it all.

The visit to Miss Madison's mother had felt awkward at first, but in the end had gone very well. It had been strange to realise that this wasn't for a case, that there was no need for subterfuge, and that they were simply there to learn more about this young woman who had unaccountably sacrificed herself to save Sherlock.

Janice Madison, an older, greyer version of her daughters, had showed them some photographs of Susan growing up, and some of her grandson as well. "Young Neil was always so fond of his aunt," she said wistfully. "She spoiled him dreadfully, but he's too good-natured to let it go to his head. They were so close... we had dreaded telling him about her diagnosis, but knew we were going to have do it soon."

John cleared his throat. "Diagnosis?"

"She was dying." Mrs. Madison closed the photo album with a sigh. "She had cancer, a brain tumor. It was very bad, very aggressive, and they told us it was inoperable. They talked about radiation therapy, and some kinds of experimental chemo, but they didn't really think any of it would help."

"A brain tumor," Sherlock said slowly. "No wonder..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. _No wonder she was willing to throw away her life by tackling a professional killer... she had so little life left,_ thought John.

"Mrs. Madison... what was your daughter doing at the pub that evening, by herself?" asked Sherlock.

The older woman shook her head. "She was planning on meeting friends later, close friends that she hadn't told yet. I think she wanted to have one last evening with them, before telling them of her diagnosis."

"And she recognised me somehow, even through my disguise, and perhaps she suspected something was up... because she settled up her bill and came outside. She followed us, and when he attacked me..." he stuck with the 'public' version of the story, "she did her best to stop him." He touched the photograph on the cover of the album - one of Susan's school photos - softly, with one finger.

Now, in the graveyard, John stood back and watched, slightly fascinated, as Sherlock knelt in front of the grave and placed the bouquet in its holder, then stood off to one side with his hand touching the headstone. He could see the muscles in Sherlock's jaw working and his Adam's apple bobbing up and down a few times before he finally spoke.

"Susan..." he began, his voice very low. "I wish I had known you for more than a few moments. You are ... were ... very brave. And quick-thinking, and resourceful. Without you, I'm not sure I could have killed Kroeger. Not without being killed myself, I think.

"I'm sorry that you died in such pain. But I'm glad that you were able to die a hero. Thank you for your sacrifice."

The words were stiff, awkward, formal. John was reminded of that Christmas party, now seeming so long ago, when Sherlock had apologised to Molly after his horrible faux pas. Molly, who had loved Sherlock enough to help him fake his own suicide, but probably knew quite well that her love would never really be returned. Molly, whose supposed death - though in Sherlock's mind only - had pushed the detective over the brink into madness from the grief and the guilt. He used her, thought John, a bit sadly. He used her, and forgot about her after that. But he felt guilty on some level, and his subconscious used that against him.

Sherlock had pulled away from the headstone and turned back, closing the small distance between them with a few steps. John looked up at him, searching the pale eyes to read his friend's state of mind. Sherlock met his gaze unflinchingly, and for the first time in weeks, gifted John with a true smile.

"Better, then?" asked John.

"I think so, yes." Sherlock reached up to the collar of his dark coat and flipped it up to cover his neck. "Completely illogical, of course. Why should I feel better after talking to a dead person's grave?"

"It's human nature to seek closure. When someone dies unexpectedly, and their loved ones don't get the opportunity for that kind of closure before the end, it's very hard on them." He looked away, then. "It was ... difficult for me, you know. When I thought you had died. I... didn't have closure, and I went out to your grave to talk to your headstone. It did help, a bit."

A few moments of silence, then John stole a glance at Sherlock, whose face had gone back to being still and unreadable. "Sherlock... while we're out here, and you're baring your soul to dead people, is there anything else you'd like to say? To me, perhaps?"

Sherlock shook his head briefly, then cleared his throat, then finally nodded. "John... I was there that day."

John frowned, puzzled. "What day?"

"The day you came out to talk to me. To my headstone. I was there, hiding where you couldn't see me. I heard you."

John closed his eyes, stunned by the revelation, and felt the grief and pain of that day came back to him. "You bastard," he whispered. "You stood there and listened to me say that."

"John... I'm sorry. I... had to see you, had to know that you were all right."

"I wasn't all right," answered John tightly. "Did your amazing powers of deduction pick up on that? I was hurting, Sherlock, bleeding inside. I was a wreck." He opened his eyes again, sighed deeply. "That's all in the past, anyway. It's the future that concerns me now."

"You're still angry with me," Sherlock said quietly. "John... I know I was having trouble with my memory at the time, but when you came to me, at Mycroft's house... I remember you saying that you had forgiven me."

John stopped, and turned to lean his suddenly aching forehead against the smooth bark of a nearby tree. "I guess I did say that. And I meant it, I think." He reached up to rub his head, tried to think of the right words. "What it comes down to... I can forgive you for the past, but that still doesn't necessarily affect what happens next."

"What happens next?" echoed Sherlock.

"Exactly." John pulled away from the tree and faced his friend. "You're back in reasonably good health, and you're as sane as you ever were." Now it was John's turn to smile wryly. "Mycroft and his staff are almost finished with having you declared legally alive again, and they seem to have disposed of all of the charges against you. So soon you'll be able to leave his house, go back to your normal life, do whatever it is you want to do next. So... what will you do?"

"I'll go back to my old work, of course. And my old flat. Our old flat." He frowned, perhaps sensing the direction the conversation was going to take.. "John... I had hoped that you would join me."

The words from a long-ago conversation hovered at the edge of John's memory. "I thought that the work was all that mattered to you," he said slowly. "You told me that once."

"I didn't know any better, then." Sherlock's voice was strained, almost desperate.

"You told me, 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.'"

"I was lying, John. I lied to you, to save your life."

"And now we've gotten to the heart of the matter, finally." John looked around, spotted an ornate marble bench. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I want to sit down for a bit."

The bench was sun-warmed and smooth-textured under John's thighs. Sherlock sat down more hesitantly, positioned almost all the way at the other end of the bench. He folded his gloved hands together and just looked at John, with that intense gaze that always made John feel that his very soul was being laid open. He looked away, down at his left hand that was idly tracing patterns in the marble.

Finally he cleared his throat. "Sherlock... there's really only two ways that this can end up today. Option number one: we go back to Mycroft's house and pack up our respective things, and prepare to go our respective ways. We part as friends, of course, and we promise to stay in touch, but you go back to your work in London - after you are duly legally resurrected - and I go back to my job in Aberdeen. We call each other once in a while, email, maybe even text... and maybe I come down to visit once in a while. But that's it."

He glanced back over at Sherlock, who seemed to be holding his breath. "And the second option?" asked Sherlock, finally.

"Option number two... we get some issues resolved, make some new ground rules... and then we still go back and pack up our things, but this time I go back to Aberdeen just long enough to resign officially and wrap up a few loose ends. Then I come back to London... and, well, then I join you in your work again." He held up a hand. "Even in that scenario, I still need to do some work as a doctor, to keep my licence active, or I'll have a devil of a time re-activating it if I ever really need to."

"You want a contingency plan," said Sherlock quietly. "I suppose I can't blame you."

John shook his head. "That's not really it. No, it's just that even working with you, solving cases, I perform tasks that fall within the realm of my medical license. Offering my opinion on a victim, taking care of an injured bystander... patching you up, God forbid. I just want to make sure I do it legally."

They sat there for a few moments. John resisted the temptation to explain further, knowing that eventually Sherlock would have to ask the obvious question. He stared straight ahead, idly watching the breeze play through the nearby stand of trees.

"John," he heard finally. He glanced to his left, saw that Sherlock had slid closer. "John, I much prefer option number two."

"So do I," he answered honestly.

"How..." he heard Sherlock swallow. "What must I do, to make that happen?"

John looked down at his hands. Stubby-fingered, slightly bitten nails, scrupulously clean, with a few patches of rough red skin from the inevitable extra hand-washing of the actively practicing physician. "You touched on it yourself, a few minutes ago," he said at last. "You lied to me, to safe my life. You can't... I can't come back and work with you, share a flat with you, if I think that's likely to happen again."

"John, I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice."

"Everyone has a choice!" John made a fist, slammed it into his own thigh. "You could have told me what you thought. You could have involved me, somehow. You had to fake your death? You could have faked mine, too. Or something. Who knows what we might have come up with, if we'd put our heads together?" He closed his eyes, feeling the old tears that were still all too eager to well up in his eyes. "Maybe I could have pulled it off, even... pretended that you were dead. You don't know."

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock's voice also seemed slightly shaky with emotion. "I was rushed. I was frightened. I didn't see any other options."

"That's a part of the truth," John agreed. "But the rest... it was your damn pride. Moriarty was your nemesis, your perfect adversary. You couldn't stand to ask anyone else for help... me, Mycroft, the police. You had to take him on, one on one, and then you got backed into a corner.

"That can't happen again, Sherlock. Nothing like that. If I come back... you have to promise that you'll involve me in any decision that affects me. That you won't just blithely decide my destiny." He forced his voice to be hard. "You have to promise. Otherwise, I'll be on the train tomorrow to Aberdeen, and I won't be coming back."

He sneaked another look at Sherlock, who looked ... well, stunned was the word that came to mind. He also seemed to have moved yet closer on the bench.

"It's your call, Sherlock," he finally added. "Your call. But for God's sake, be honest. If you can't make the commitment to make that kind of promise, then we are both better off knowing it from ... from this point on."

Heavy silence reigned for a long , John jumped a little as he felt a touch on his left hand. "I promise," he heard.

Instinctively, he turned toward his friend, and reached out with his hand at the same time. He felt Sherlock's gloved fingers twine around his. "I promise," Sherlock said in a stronger voice. "I promise to keep you informed, and involved."

"And you won't go haring off on your own? You'll let me know what you are up to?" pressed John.

"Yes. I promise. At least... I'll try. John, I might screw it up at times, but I'll try."

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Freeing his fingers and leaning to his left, he slipped an arm around Sherlock's back, pulled him close so that the familiar dark curly head was resting on his shoulder. "Good. See that you remember it."


	23. Part Twenty-Three: Epilogue

Part Twenty-Three, Epilogue: Practically Glowing With Contentment

"Oh, dear... It's all so very dusty. I'm sorry, boys, I haven't been up here to clean in an age. I just wasn't expecting you to come back." Mrs. Hudson wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. "Your brother Mycroft was paying your rent so regular, and I couldn't abide the idea of some stranger living here in your flat. And John, I thought you might come back and visit some time, and I wanted it to be all ready for you. But I didn't keep it up."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson," affirmed John. "We'll manage just fine."

It had been fascinating to watch Mrs. Hudson's response to the resurrected Sherlock. The detective himself had wanted to surprise her completely; John, mindful of what a severe shock could do to an elderly lady, had vetoed that idea. Instead, he'd gone ahead to their old flat, visited the dear woman, and he'd broken the news to her gently. She had wept tears of joy, lectured him sternly about not letting her know sooner, and abjured him to bring back "that bad boy" as soon as possible.

From the vantage point of the entrance, John watched with amused pleasure as Sherlock fell into Mrs. Hudson's clutches. She hugged him and kissed him, cried on him, then began to scold him most impressively. John folded his arms and tried not to laugh.

"There's nothing in the fridge, of course... but it's clean. And your things are all in your bedroom. I kept asking Mycroft when he was going to pack up your books and clothing, but he asked me to keep them aired out and just the way you had left them." She made a rude noise. "And here I thought he was being sentimental about his baby brother... no, he knew you were coming back."

They had completed their quick survey of the flat and were back in the kitchen. John felt happier than he had in a long time and knew that he kept breaking into a grin, accompanied by tuneless humming. Sherlock... Sherlock was practically glowing with contentment, back in his own flat, with his own little pseudo-family. Right now he was banging open cupboard doors, clearly looking for something. "Mycroft said... ah, here it is." He pulled out an expensive-looking bottle of brandy. "No proper snifters, but we can use whatever's here." Finding three mugs, he poured a generous dollop into each of them and handed one each to John and to Mrs. Hudson. He raised his own mug, suddenly grinned widely. "To my friends."

"To friends," echoed John and Mrs. Hudson, both smiling widely.


End file.
